


The Seven-Year Itch

by Petra



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-24
Updated: 2007-07-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: Dick is aware of Matches the whole time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Te made me. Betty cheered me on and beta read. Written DC Flashfiction's Identity Porn challenge. This is not a prequel to [How to Marry a Millionaire](http://archiveofourown.org/series/4650).

Dick spots the pattern of the man's jacket from across the bar and eases his way over, grabbing Coors Light for Officers Jackson and Davis, who have just rolled in and look like they've had a hell of a night. "Evening," he says to them, and they pay him. The better the service is, the more they've started tipping, mostly because they want him out of the way.

Two beers to cash out, and a new customer to take care of. The uniforms are avoiding him, and he seems fine with that. What exactly Matches Malone is doing in a cop bar in Blüdhaven -- "What can I get you?" Dick asks, and means all the questions he can't exactly bring up. 

Matches looks at him over his sunglasses -- mirrored, and in the dark -- and winks. "I could use a Mind Eraser." 

It's not something that any of the regulars order, and coming from Matches -- maybe it's some kind of tip-off. Dick spreads his hands. "A what?" 

"Vodka, Kahlúa, and tonic." Matches twitches his lips and moves the match to the opposite corner of his mouth. 

The Mexican gangs are working with Russians? And -- English? Dick reaches for the bottles while he tries to figure it out. "Can do." 

Matches drops a five on the bar and takes the glass. He sips, and Dick wonders if he should've somehow substituted Coke and water. "Not bad for your first time. Keep the change, kid." 

"Hey, what does a guy have to do around this place to get a pitcher of Bud?" Officer Nelson yells, and Dick snags the money and heads over to the tap. 

"Sorry about that." 

After Nelson and his buddies, there's a pretty steady stream heading into happy hour. Dick is aware of Matches the whole time, as a listening presence, but he doesn't actually hear him say anything to anybody. He doesn't order another cocktail for at least an hour and a half, and when he does, he takes out a ten and says, "Can I get a Screaming Orgasm?" 

Dick is perfectly aware of the name. Sergeant O'Connor buys them for his mistress every Thursday, just before Dick gets off work, and he knows how to mix one. It's incongruous, though -- too sickly sweet for Matches. But if the IRA is involved in whatever's happening in Gotham, and it's spreading to Blüdhaven -- he measures the Bailey's and wonders just how much backup he's going to need. 

Matches offers him the money and asks, quietly enough that but for the accent he could be wearing Bruce's clothes, "When do you get off work?" 

"Half an hour." Dick glances at Officer Nelson, and at the rest of the bar, but nobody needs him right now, and no one's watching. "Where should I meet you?" 

"Round the back." Matches grins and looks him over -- of course Dick is wearing his uniform under his clothes, and if Bruce doesn't have his cowl tucked under that checked monstrosity, Dick will be surprised. "Give it fifteen minutes after you leave." 

"Thanks." Dick smiles for the benefit of anybody looking, nods, and takes the money. Matches knocks back the cocktail, sets down the glass, and leaves before Dick realizes he's got fifty dollars in his hand, not ten. 

He can't think of what fifty dollars -- or forty-three dollars and two cents -- would signify, but he puts the change in his pocket just the same. 

Half an hour listening to Officers and Sergeants and tales of corruption makes Dick more than ready to leave. With ten minutes to the rendezvous, he hears Officer Meltzer talking about somebody on the take, and he spends a little time polishing the bar until somebody else shushes him. 

Four minutes isn't enough time to get home and back, but it might be okay to go in his civvies, anyway. It's ten-o'clock at night, and he's pretty good at shadows. He finds himself a nice corner and waits. 

Matches -- still Matches, standing in the mouth of the alley behind the bar like he's never heard of silhouettes and wouldn't care if he has -- shows up three minutes late. Dick spends the time trying to convince himself that if anything had gone seriously wrong, Bruce would have called Babs, who would have called him. 

"Hey, pretty boy," Matches says, and he sounds -- and smells -- drunk. 

"I was wondering what happened to you," Dick says, and Matches puts one heavy hand on his shoulder. The rings over the calluses clink together. 

"Don't worry about me, I can take care of myself." The lurch that brings Matches' mouth against his can't be real -- Bruce didn't drink that much, and he wouldn't, not in an unfamiliar city. Not ever. 

Dick has spent far longer than he will ever count trying to imagine what it would feel like to kiss Bruce. He's envisioned scenarios ranging from the most saccharine possible to the most pornographically improbable, and not one included Matches' mustache chafing his upper lip and the sickly sweet taste of Bailey's on his mouth. 

"What --" He puts his hand on Matches' shoulder -- the scratch of the awful fabric makes it impossible to forget who he's dealing with. "What do you need?" 

Matches laughs in his ear, flat and loud. "I don't figure you're a pro, working a bar like this." He leans back in time to catch Dick's wince at the suggestion. "Nah, I figured. Another kiss, gorgeous?" 

He doesn't wait for Dick to respond before kissing him again. Dick toys vaguely with the notion that there's some French gang in town, but along with the mishmash of nationalities, it just doesn't make any damn sense. 

Which means there's some other reason Bruce is pushing his tongue into Dick's mouth and -- grabbing his ass. 

The greater meaning is lost on him, and he kicks himself for failing, one more time. The only thing he's sure of is that he's getting hard, and that that can't possibly be what Bruce wants. 

What Matches wants. 

Matches wants his hand down Dick's pants, and if there's some important message here, he's going to have to get Bruce to write it down, because there's nothing that can make him think clearly through this. He's vaguely aware that he should make this stop, that if it was anyone else in the world, he'd be shoving the man's hand out of his -- tights. Because whatever game is going on, whatever role Dick's supposed to be playing, Matches hasn't turned a hair at the tights. 

Dick can't even breathe. He's damn glad he got a good patch of shadow earlier, because he's sure he's turning bright red now. "Bruce, I --" he manages, between kisses. 

Matches tugs his tights and his pants down like he hasn't even noticed the extra layer. The neon from the bar across the way glints in his teeth. "Call me anything you want, baby." 

"I -- please tell me what you want." He gets the words out in a rush. 

Bruce -- Matches chuckles. "A million dollars and a dirty weekend with you, but I'd settle for just the one I'm likely to get." He squeezes Dick hard enough that he has to bite his lip not to moan out loud. "Maybe just a few minutes of your time." 

"But I --" 

"What's wrong?" Matches takes his left hand. Sucks his ring finger, and he has to bite down on his right palm to not scream. "You sure don't act married." 

"No, I just --" Dick stares at him, tries to get his eyes to focus, and gives up. If he plays this through to the end, maybe he'll find out what the point is. "What do you really want?" 

Matches leans in and breathes on his dick. "I've never been to the 'haven before, but don't you guys have hookups out here?" His tongue -- 

His tongue is rough and warm and wet like anybody else's tongue, but right now it is the most important and interesting tongue in the whole damn world, because he's running it over the head of Dick's dick and he might just come from that. 

That and Bruce -- Matches -- kissing him braindead. "I don't --" 

Matches pats his hip and lets him go with a slurp. "Just relax, baby. Let me --" 

Part of Dick's brain makes a mental note that that's what a mustache feels like against his pubic bone. 

Part of it makes a quick effort at wondering what the possible use of learning to deep throat is, on a tactical level. 

Both parts quickly abandon ship and join the rest of him in saying something like, "Oh fuck, oh -- fuck," and trying hard -- there's a word -- not to come right now. Not right now, not -- not. 

Matches squeezes him and sucks him in again, choking himself and just going with it -- drunkenly, determinedly, something -- and if Dick half-opens his eyes, and squints, and ignores the riot of colors and the grease shining in his hair -- 

It's Bruce's mouth on him, and Bruce squeezing his hip and groaning around him, cutting the sound off when he cuts his own breath off to make Dick's brain melt just that much faster. 

"Oh -- god, I'm going to come, I --" and he means stop, and Bruce grabs him by the hip and just holds him there. He's shaking and coming and stuffing his hand in his mouth isn't enough to shut himself up, but it means he's not yelling Bruce's name into the Blüdhaven night. 

Small victory, but -- it's a victory. 

Matches pats him affectionately and lets him go, wiping his mouth. "There. How about that weekend, huh?" 

Dick stares at him. "A weekend." 

"You, me, a room at the Super 8, two boxes of condoms." Matches gets up and waggles his eyebrows. "What do you say?" 

"Yes" is entirely out of the question. "Which Super 8?" Dick asks. 

"The one on Zircher, out by the airport." Matches pats his cheek. "Room 36. Are you coming?" 

Finally, a destination. Dick takes a deep breath and pulls his tights up. "What should I bring?" 

Matches grins and flicks his match to the other side of his mouth. "Toothbrush and a smile, pretty boy. But watch yourself -- one of my acquaintances has been making meth in the next room over, and sometimes it can get a little --" he waves his hand. "Hairy." 

"Right." Dick fastens his pants. "I'll, um, get my toothbrush and meet you there in twenty minutes." 

Matches kisses him -- he tastes like semen, far more than the nasty drinks -- and Dick shivers. "See you there." 

When he gets to the hotel, mask on and fully suited, and jimmies the door, Matches is sitting on one of the beds with a bottle of Jack Daniels between his thighs like a square erection. "Hey, beautiful. Looks like my buddy next door cleared out." He grins at Dick. "I didn't expect a costume party." 

Dick shuts the door behind himself and stares at him. He's still wearing the horrible blazer. "Bruce, hasn't this gone far enough?" Maybe something is affecting his mind and making him believe he really is Matches Malone. 

Matches waves this off. "I'm only really in town for the night -- sorry if you canceled your plans for Sunday. Gotta get home to Gotham." 

Pacing back and forth isn't going to cut it, but somehow the thought of walking on his hands goes from good practice, like it would be in front of Bruce, to some kind of contortionist come-on, just because Bruce is wearing sunglasses and has a match in his mouth. 

Kind of like -- and Dick is getting hysterical, here, and he knows it -- how ears and a cape make Batman. "What do you do in Gotham?" he asks. 

"A little grifting, a little management." Matches tips his glasses down and winks at Dick over them. "Got a real nice gig at Wayne Enterprises, these days." 

So he's fine. Which means that all of this makes even less sense. "Uh-huh. And you're in Blüdhaven --" 

"For a vacation." Matches sets the bottle on the floor, comes over and kisses him. He tastes like whiskey. "Thought I'd see the sights." 

Dick laughs. He's starting to appreciate the 'haven, but -- "It's not a garden spot." 

Matches bites his ear. "It's got you, doesn't it, baby? Hell, all we got back home is the Batman and Robin." 

Dick lets his hand slam into Matches' chest hard enough to find out what he's wearing under the shirt that clashes with his jacket. 

No armor. None. 

"Speaking of Batman," Dick says, and Matches bites his earlobe. 

"Don't bring him into this, sweet thing. I'm on vacation." He squeezes Dick's ass. "You look real good in this -- spandex, is it? but you'd look better out of it." 

Dick is fighting two losing battles -- to figure out what's going on, and to care. "You sure you don't have to -- ah -- go back tonight?" 

There must be more to do than this. There always is, there always has been, and Dick has known it since the day he realized who Bruce really was. He just got more embarrassed when he figured out that the whole playboy act was completely an act. 

It kept him from saying anything about what he might want, and now he hates himself for falling -- if he fell -- for that too. How many years of jerking off as silently as humanly possible, knowing that Bruce wouldn't necessarily want to know, but would hear any sound out of the ordinary? 

Matches pets his ass as if it's familiar territory. "Go back tonight? And miss the show?" 

Dick shakes his head. "Show?" 

"You, pretty boy." Matches leers at him and kisses him again, sweet and stinging and crazy. "Take off that mask for me, why don't you." 

It takes a little solvent and a couple of seconds, and it feels disturbingly unsafe for all it's Bruce, right here, and nobody else. But it's Bruce petting his thigh, and that's nothing like normal. "Take your glasses off," Dick says. 

Matches looks vulnerable without them -- like Bruce with a chocolate milk mustache -- for half a second before he gets all the way into being Matches again. "Demanding little thing, aren't you." He drops his glasses by the bottle of whiskey. "And after I blew you real nice and everything." 

"I'm not going to be the only one naked here," Dick says, and his voice shakes when he says it. "Your jacket." 

"Aw, now, tit for tat." Matches swats him on the ass. "Gotta take something off, too, gorgeous." 

"Fine." Dick toes off one of his boots and realizes that Matches hasn't called him anything but pet names so far. "So -- why me, Malone?" 

Matches hangs his jacket on the back of the door and holds his hands up. "Hey, now, what is this, some kind of sting? You don't look like a g-man in that getup." 

Dick stares at him. "All right -- Matches, then." 

"That's better, but it still doesn't tell me how you figured out my name." Matches runs his fingers down the blue stripe on Dick's chest. "You work in a cop bar, dress up in black. Did you call the Bat to find out?" 

The logic is tortured at best, but so is Dick's ability to play this game. "Yeah, I did." He pokes Matches in the chest. "And he told me you're a no-good low-down rotten bastard. But deep down he thinks maybe you're not so bad." 

Matches catches his hand and puts his arm around Dick. "Don't go spreading it around," he says, and kisses Dick again. The burn from the whiskey is fading, but his breath is still heavy with it. "Word gets out I'm not the big man I maybe used to be, and I'm sunk." 

"Your secret's safe with me." Dick leans against him. Against his erection. "I guess -- if we're friends -- you should call me --" 

Matches covers his mouth. "We're good, baby. Don't have to tell me your secrets." 

Because he already knows them. All of them. Enough to come to the 'haven and -- everything. 

Dick nods and licks his fingers. "Got it." 

"Damn, you sure do." The way he looks -- Dick keeps forgetting the mustache. Matches Malone, whoever he is, can't look that focused. He pushes his thumb into Dick's mouth. "I didn't figure you'd show up, but while you're here --" 

"Still got those two boxes of condoms?" Dick asks, grinning around his thumb. This is all -- a vacation. As long as he remembers that, he'll be fine. 

"Right next to Gideon." Matches nuzzles his neck. "You should get out of this spandex." 

Dick plucks at the unsightly sleeve of his shirt. "You should get out of this. How many polyesters did they have to kill to make your suit?" 

Matches shakes his head. "That joke's older than you, beautiful. I told you --" 

He takes off his tunic in one smooth motion. "Right, sorry." 

"Damn." Matches whistles and reaches for him again. "I could watch you all night." 

Dick starts unbuttoning Matches' shirt. "That wouldn't be fair. I can't stand looking at you in this outfit." 

"Aw, now." Matches starts at the bottom and together they've got it off before long. Without it, his shoulders are somehow Bruce's, impressive and strong, instead of half obscured by the garishness of the fabric. The undershirt has the grace to be plain white. "Is that so much better?" 

"Yes." Dick tucks his hand under it and finds one of the scars he knows as well as his own. "I guess you've been in a couple of fights, huh." 

"Here and there." Matches looks him over -- he can practically feel the heat of that gaze. "You, too." 

Dick unbuttons Matches' pants -- the more naked he gets, the easier it is to think of him as Bruce, though he hasn't stopped acting. "It's all in the company you keep, I guess." 

"Been a long time since I had company as good as this." Matches tucks his hand down Dick's tights and squeezes him again. "You're making this real hard." 

"That's not the only thing that is," Dick says, and -- if Bruce acted like Bruce, he might go gently with the puns, but for Matches -- 

Matches chuckles and strokes him. "Get these off for me, gorgeous." 

If Bruce was acting like Bruce, this wouldn't be happening. Dick shucks his gloves off, kicks his other boot in the general direction of the first one, and peels the tights down. Nothing strange in this -- no one here he hasn't changed in front of, showered with, more times than he can count. 

"Fuckin' beautiful," Matches says, and everything goes a little sideways. 

"You're not so bad yourself once you get out of that outfit." It's a slanted compliment, not half of what he thinks, but it gives him an excuse to pull Matches' pants down, and Bruce's thighs are nothing to sneeze at. 

Matches clucks his tongue. "Flattery will get you everywhere, baby." He gets his shoes off and leaves his pants in a wrinkled puddle that will do absolutely nothing to hurt them any further, then runs his hand down Dick's back and cups his ass again. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but it must've been bad for my street cred." 

Dick laughs and squeezes him right back. "No worse than your tighty-whities." 

"Because you're the soul of fashion, sweetheart?" Matches swats him lightly -- another impossibility with Bruce. "I didn't ask you here for your advice, anyway." He takes them off, just the same, and Dick gets a moment to just look at him. 

Most of his memories of Bruce naked are mixed up in being embarrassed that he wanted to see Bruce naked in the first place, and trying not to admit it or let Bruce know. Apparently, he failed to hide his interest just as spectacularly with Bruce as he did with Clark -- and Roy, though Roy's more opportunistic than either of them and might have kissed him just for the hell of it. 

Now he can look all he wants. He's invited, he's naked -- and Matches is studying him right back. "So," Dick says. 

"Damn," Matches says, and leers at him. If he'd only lose the mustache and the match -- maybe the spell would break, and Bruce would want him back out in the streets pronto. Instead -- "Maybe I'll stay over for Sunday, too." He moves -- with a grace Dick would never have attributed to Matches and an erection he wouldn't have expected from Bruce -- and sweeps the blankets and top sheet to the bottom of the bed. "Plenty of condoms, anyway." 

Dick takes the invitation and gets into bed, stretching his ankles while he's got the chance. "If you want. I have to get some work done, though." 

Matches lies down half on top of him and kisses him hard. "I haven't got that kind of free time either, baby, but a man can dream." The warmth of the words and the weight of his body make Dick shiver and pull him down for another kiss. 

"I guess we'd better make the most of it." Dick runs his hand down Matches' back, wishing he was brave enough to savor this as much as he wants to. 

It helps, but not enough, that Matches still tastes like whiskey, and therefore nothing like Bruce. "When you're right, you're right." Matches kisses him again and props himself up on one elbow, running his hand down Dick's thigh. "If you ever get sick of bartending, I bet you could find a damn good job." 

Dick spreads his legs, pushing away the parts of his brain that want Bruce to be in full uniform just as hard as the parts that want to get him to say things Matches never would. Bruce wouldn't either, but it's faint comfort. "It's a temporary gig. Lube with the condoms?" 

"Where else?" 

Dick opens the bottom drawer on the shoddy nightstand and pulls out a fresh tube of lube and a box of condoms by feel. The Bible stays right where it was placed, along with the other box of rubbers. "Just checking." 

"You do this kind of thing a lot?" Matches asks, slicking his fingers up. 

"Not much." Dick spreads a little further, then more, until he can feel the stretch. "I'm usually pretty busy during cruising hours, and -- well, you saw where I work." 

"Not a lot of horny cops in this town?" Matches shakes his head. "Well damn. They don't know what they're missing." He runs one finger down Dick's cleft and presses. "Relax for me." 

This is more relaxation than Dick has had since he got to the 'haven. More than he can remember hoping for in years. "You got it." Pushing back against him -- against Matches' hand, Bruce's calluses -- makes it easier to pretend they're not in a ratty bed in a motel. This belongs -- if it belongs anywhere -- in the heirloom bed that must have been Bruce's parents', on fine sheets. 

Dick only let himself jerk off on that bed once, and he brought plenty of tissues. Nobody ever said anything about it, but even at fourteen and dead from the neck up with hormones he knew that silence and ignorance weren't necessarily the same thing. 

Or it belongs somewhere outside -- high up, or deep shadows, like the alley earlier. But those places are more for Batman and Robin, and Dick isn't damn well Robin anymore. 

They're not in Gotham, and Bruce came to him. 

He smiles and twists his hips until Matches' finger is almost where he needs it. "More," he says, and two fingers -- quick and hard as he's pushing -- right there -- "oh, yeah." 

"Baby, if you could see yourself --" Matches' voice loses its edge for a second, shifts until -- "So beautiful." 

"You don't -- ah -- have to just -- watch." 

He'd forgotten the mustache for a second until it brushes his chest and Matches sucks his nipple. "It's not just watching, gorgeous. Never just watching when it's you." 

From a one-night stand, it means nothing. From Bruce -- even in Matches' voice -- Dick groans and gropes on the bed for the condoms. "Where'd I put them?" 

Matches tears the box open and opens a packet with dexterity no two-bit mook has ever developed to such a degree, but when he goes to put it on his hand starts shaking. "You ready, baby?" 

It won't be as easy as it could be, but Dick isn't in the mood for gentle, and he wants to remember every twinge tomorrow. "Hell yes." He can't tell whether he's helping roll the thing on or getting in the way, and part of him wants to turn Bruce's question back on him -- how often has he done this? 

Often enough -- or well-researched enough -- to spread another squirt of lube on over the condom, anyway. "You got it." 

Dick opens his eyes again at the first push and has a moment to wish he'd rolled over, while Matches -- complete with match, however the hell he manages that -- is staring at him. Then a little tension comes back into his face -- he pulls out, pushes in a little farther -- and it's going to be just fine like this, because greasy hair and all, Dick has never seen Bruce so lost. "You feel -- nn -- great," he says, and hooks one leg over Matches' shoulder. "Keep -- keep going." 

The way his mouth opens a little -- it's not an act, can't be. "God, baby, you couldn't be better." Matches runs his hand down Dick's face and gives him a crooked, tight smile that isn't Matches'. "Gorgeous." 

"I -- god, just --" The next thrust is hard enough he can't bite back a groan. It's going to smart tomorrow, but right now it hurts just right, just like it should. "Fuck, yes --" 

Matches laughs -- Matches' laugh -- at the curse, and the motel comes right back into focus. "That's the plan." This isn't a nice bed, the walls aren't solid, and Matches isn't quite Bruce. 

Which gives Dick permission to be not quite Dick, if he wants to be. He thinks of Clark in a dizzy moment, of learning to do this, and grabs one of the fluffy pillows to shove under his hips. "This was a plan?" 

He gets his hips up another notch, and Matches leans in, shoves in until he wails, and kisses him. "Hell yes." 

Dick laughs at himself for even asking and at Bruce for being willing to answer truthfully, when he's sure Matches doesn't make this kind of plan for anything or anybody. "Planning to -- oh, nn -- fuck me stupid's not a lot of planning." He's helping, hard as he can, using all the leverage he can get. "I don't -- have that far to, oh, go." 

"I know better than -- that and I just met you, gorgeous." The catch in Matches' breathing makes Dick tighten his hands into fists in the flimsy sheet and push himself harder. He's shaking with the strain, and the mattress has started to creak in rhythm. 

With any luck, there's nobody next door. 

"God, you --" Dick shakes his head against the pillow and arches his back. Matches gets a good, solid Bruce-strength grip on his hips. It's almost exactly like being safe. 

But better, because safe almost never means fucked this hard, this well, never means something he's been waiting for so long he thought it would never be real. 

"You're good, baby -- so good." It's Bruce's voice, Matches' words, and Dick stares at him, watches him lick his lips and moan like this is tearing him apart and putting him back together. 

It should be. It's only fair. 

"You're a bastard," Dick says, and he means both of them, everybody in Bruce's head that's been waiting for this and can only do it on the sly. "But -- god, you feel so good. Just -- nnh, yes." 

"Not very nice, sweetheart," and that's Matches all the way, but it's Bruce's expression in his eyes, approving. Loving, even. "Jerk yourself off for me. Let me see you." 

It was the first fantasy Dick was embarrassed to have -- being caught, Bruce watching him, and wanting to watch him. The first, and one of the best, and wrapping his hand around his dick now is like coming home. "I won't -- won't last long." 

"Long enough for me." Three strokes in, Bruce covers Dick's hand with his own, not speeding him up -- the rhythm of his hips is strong enough to keep him right on track. He can't keep his eyes open enough of the time to see more than moments -- Bruce's tongue on his lips, his mouth broadening into a smile, a groan, and a shiver. 

Dick wants to let himself go, just ride this however long it lasts -- and it can't be long, Bruce's breathing is rougher than it gets in  
life-or-death situations -- but he hasn't got that much willpower. All he can do is swear to himself to do everything he can to get Bruce off first, and -- it's Matches, still, and it's enough to get him to say what he's thinking. "You feel so -- amazing. God -- fuck me, please, yes, don't stop -- don't -- don't ever stop --" 

Matches makes a noise that might have wanted to be a word and comes hard, shaking with it and holding Dick's hand still -- unconsciously, Dick would bet anything. 

The way he smiles when he opens his eyes -- Dick hasn't seen him this naked in years, match notwithstanding. "Keep going." He pulls Dick's hand up his dick again, and it's all the encouragement he needs. 

Some other time he'll make it a better show, tease and linger until he can't stand it, but now he needs it fast and hard. Matches -- Bruce -- says, "Oh, yeah, baby, just like that," and Dick whimpers. "Come on, beautiful. Come for me," and he can't not, can't do anything but try not to bite his own tongue or scream so loud the neighbors can hear. It's one hell of a perfect moment. 

"I --" Dick can feel all his muscles melting into uselessness. "Mmm." 

"Well, damn." Matches wipes a smear of come off his face with the back of his hand and pats Dick's cheek again. "You don't do anything by halves, do you." 

Dick smiles at him. "You don't either. So -- don't start." He catches the world going blurry around the edges. "Hit the lights, maybe?" 

It stings when Matches pulls out, but only enough to wake him up a little. "Should get you cleaned up first." 

"In the morning." Dick reaches for him, but Matches is only hitting the light switch over the bed. "Shower in the morning. And more sex." 

Matches puts an arm around him as solid and real as any hug from Bruce has ever been. "You got it, baby. Sleep tight." 

* 

Dick wakes up alone and hates himself -- for hoping, and for knowing he was hoping against hope. 

There's a match on the nightstand, but that's all.


End file.
